Kristin Hatch
Three Poems
chef
he’s got mannerist hands with moonmouth nails & when he pastries there is the spine like a wind-up tickle-board. he’s a big brick building & sturdy & fierce. his precision bulges like an arch at you, push, push. you beg on his balustrade, finding excuses to ask for extra pink sauce or feathers. his answer always grunts and always ramekin fast. chef is dutiful, though aloof. beg. how his fingers, a mini-dice ballet, all of them tap & grab & twist & slap. think. smooth, girl – & thicken at the blade.
the bitches
when it’s not busy i usually stand around making jelly tin forts with host. host is high school & i think a racist but he’s better than the bitches. the bitches just scowl & puke out ranch at you. host smells like sweet & rancid, teenager smells . he stares at your boobs & gets boners right there at a booth. but he’s still better than the bitches. the bitches try to bite your arms off. they nibble at your armpits, packs of them like dogs but they do it in babytalk. they gnaw into your ticklish parts with pitch & favors. they cover you with their goopy mistakes & they make you wear ugly, steal all your fourtops get it, he’s indian & you just have to build this fort so sound no can find you & you just have to shrink in & wait. one day, you won’t smell like mop & they’ll still be bitches with hostbabies & you’ll be bigtime, you’ll ask for everything special & then leave pennies down their stinky bitchthroats.
meatgirl training shift #1
greet your eater within a minute, basket in hand.
say, hi my name is (storm cloud, viking, etc.) & i’ll be your watcher today,
then place the meat with a side of white sauce always at four o’clock to the salt.
most of the job is mastering the squat.
it’s against policy to sit but we have to be eye-level.
you can use the edge of the table to help you down, but you get
audited for holding on past that.
your thighs will feel like violin wire.
once in position, let your arms dangle (don’t put them in your lap) they like that best.
open your mouth wide.
your eater should see fur down your throat.
you have to stay like this as long as he eats.
sometimes after they try to throw the bones in your mouth.
don’t get mad.
they think we like it, like they’re telling us we’re doing good.
if management sees, they’ll tell them to stop,
but never tell them yourself – we aren’t supposed to speak in position.
your mouth gets dry and the job is boring.
i pretend my mouth in perfect scenes:
penguins dancing, marching band parades.
when they are finished, give them one package of ez-wipes.
once, this guy complained to management that my stare wasn’t believable.
his mouth looked infected. i gagged twice during the session.
they gave me a warning.
i often dream in chicken skin.
like the sun has it on. like
everyone’s faces are fried & i have to bite them off.
but it’s good money & the other girls are fine.